#daven.2

The night was thick with the fragrant air wafting from the conjured hedge maze. The scent was the sort that had a way of clinging to the skin, sinking into the breath, and taking root somewhere in the marrow. The festival hummed behind the gardens, the ball itself still in full swing - offenses peppered in here or there, Rhiannon's notification that he was to meet a young lord when they returned to Bergia fresh on his mind. There was a juxtaposition between wanting to flee this place completely and wishing the festival of the concord wouldn't end. If nothing else there were some moments that felt genuine, but Iskander kept the simple front of aloof hedonist firmly in place.

Iskander led, moving without hurry but never quite still, something caught between wind and want as he relished in the idea of disappearing into the maze. It'd be expected for the Bergian to enter and it would be unexpected for him to do so without company - while Daven was resigned to remain a fixed figure in the corner of the room, watching but never truly interacting, Iskander would take every opportunity he could to take him somewhere they could be alone. Away from the eyes and the gossip.

“Daven.” His voice was quiet as the shadow of the second born prince backed into the maze, soft but insistent. A lure rather than a command. “Come.”